Falling Star
by Windsong
Summary: Discontinued. Angel Fall fic.  Stars rise, and stars fall.  The story of one star's rise...but how far will she fall?
1. lonely

Welcome to version 2 of the first chapter of Falling Star! All I did was combine chapters one and two into a single chapter, but still. ;;O.o

This isn't really an Angelic Layer fic as much as it is a fic for my Online RP based on Angelic Layer called Angel Fall (groups. So if you stop reading right now, I wouldn't blame you!

This fic is in both first and third person. First-person sections are in italics; Third-person sections are in normal font. And yes I know this can sound like a mary sue, since the main character uses my internet alias, kind of, but it's really not. I swear. XD This chapter's mostly setup; the next chapter's where I start doing interesting things, like Layer battles. XD

And now onto the other boring drivel, Angelic Layer isn't mine; it's CLAMP's. Anything not found in Angelic Layer is mine; most especially, the idea of the AAMS Chip and all new characters are mine. If I find you using anything that's mine anywhere without my express permission (in writing, no less!), I will take your head off, y'hear me? Thank you.

**Reference points:**  
"-sama" is a suffix added to names to show respect. It's the equivalent of "Lord" or "Lady."  
A sailor fuku is what a stereotypical female Japanese school uniform is called. It gets its name from the collar, which is the same as the ones found on sailor uniforms.  
"Hokuto" means "North Star," and "Gakuen" means academy, so literally translated, it means Polaris Academy.

Enjoy!

* * *

Falling Star  
_By Windsong_  
**Chapter One: lonely**

_I'm always humming, or singing. Always. Filling the air with random white noise, sometimes songs I've heard somewhere and sometimes things I spin from my imagination, sometimes not even a melody, just a single note held under my breath until I forget that I'm humming, why I'm humming, what the humming's for. _

I've gotten good at lying to myself. And that's what my singing really represents, I guess. 

She hummed quietly to herself, a bright, sunny tune she had heard in school as she passed through the hallways, as she forced her way into her apartment. Like everything else in the building, the door was old and rusted, stuck more often than not, squealing in protest every inch of the way when it _did_ decide to work. She paused her humming a moment as she sighed silently in teasing exasperation, mouth turned upwards in a gentle, fond smile, before she stepped over the threshold into her house.

Her smile faded as the silence engulfed her.

_Me? I'm just your normal average fourteen-year-old. Well, okay, I do have an "exotic" look, as people like to say, with my brown color scheme—brown eyes, dark tan skin, brown streaks in my black hair. But really, I'm just a normal girl. I live in Fukuoka, and my life is a lot like most other families in the area. We're not poor, but we're not rich, either. Somewhere in the middle, lower middle class. Yes, we live from paycheck to paycheck, and yes, we always have one eye turned towards poverty, but I've never gone hungry, never had to do without something I've really needed. _

Well, materially, anyway. 

Her expression now tinged with sadness, she moved automatically through the house, ignoring the chaotic clutter of papers and oddments that littered every available space. She paused a moment to drop her messenger bag into her corner of the living room that was considered "hers"—it was only slightly cleaner than the rest of the apartment, made up of a bedroll, a drawer, and a small desk—before heading to the kitchen to make dinner. The sounds that she made echoed eerily in the too-quiet stillness. Her eyes were wide, blank as she moved through the kitchen, her mouth closed, her voice silent, her mind on auto-pilot as she battled the sadness, forcing it away—a battle she won daily, a battle old and worn—a battle fought wearily, out of habit more than actual will.

You could say she lost it daily, too. Depends on your perception. What's more important: thinking you're happy or actually being happy?

_My parents and I don't see each other much; haven't for years. They work unholy hours, leaving at six-thirty in the morning and usually coming home well after midnight. I hear them, when I'm on the verge of sleep; coming home, groaning slightly, eating the food I've prepared beforehand, collapsing into the bed I've made. That's really all we have of each other—second-hand experience. We see each other's stuff lying around, they hear my soft breathing as I sleep and I take care of the chores so they don't have to. They hear about me through my grades, I hear about them through their weary voices talking about their day—their two-in-the-morning conversations always get integrated into my dreams. _

I don't remember the last time I saw their faces in real life, and not just the picture I have of us in my room, next to my computer. 

Once dinner was simmering on the stove, she moved back to her room, leaving the door wide open—there was no danger here, and no one to keep secrets from. She picked her messenger bag up from the floor, sweeping her hair back with an easy, practiced flick before sitting on her bedroll with a soft thump. She was relieved that her workload wasn't half as bad as usual; it would mean she would get a chance to try something new tonight.

_It's not a bad life, really. I have nothing to complain about. Just...sometimes, I wish I could see them more. I wish I had more to hold on to. Store up on memories for the long trip home—that's a phrase I often say, don't know where it's from. It helps me remember a scene better, since we don't have a camera. But how can I store up on memories when there's nothing to remember? Nothing but half-snippets, wisps of dreams? _

As she finished the last of her written homework, her eyes turned, as if of their own volition, to rest upon the computer, half-hidden in the corner—and the small faded picture she saw there.

She picked herself up from her bed and walked slowly to the photograph, cradling it tenderly in her left hand, as if it were a fragile bird about to fly away. That was her, in the middle, back when she was seven, caught in the middle of a shrieking laugh. And those two people next to her—

Her father was where she got her height and lithe, athletic build; her mother gave her the color of her skin and the face she wore. Anyone could tell that she was their child. She reached out her right hand to gently touch her father's face, feeling the sadness sweep through her.

_Lonely._ She could her voice whispering it to her.

She closed her eyes. _I'm not._

_Lonely,_ the voice insisted, rising in a hiss.

_I'm not!_

She could see herself, staring with narrowed eyes, glaring at her blind stupidity. _Stop lying to yourself! _

Her breath exploded out of her in a forced sigh as she dropped the picture, stumbling blindly to her bedroll, half-collapsing onto the hard floor before burying her face in the rolled up blanket.

_All right, all right! So I'm lonely. It's gotten to the point where, day after day, hearing nothing but my voice, talking to no one but myself, seeing no one but my hard reflection staring shadows at me, not feeling the warmth of human contact, only inanimate objects, sheets and clocks, and silverware—It's hard, and it's cold, and I don't like it. Oh, fine—more than that; I _hate _it. When I was younger, we used to go out for walks, talk, see each other. But now? Since they've started working, trying to provide a better life for me, save up for my high school education, I've been traveling through life alone, a single traveler on a winding, murky path. _

Her breaths were deep, shaky as she kept them under control, forcing herself to calm down. To forget. To pretend that nothing was wrong, she was just normal, right? Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face set in an expression of pain. After a few minutes, her breathing slowed and evened, and when her eyes opened, she managed to force a smile. It was a slightly twisted smile, wrought of lies—but hey, a smile's a smile, right?

_Friends from school? I don't have any. We're a single, close-knit group, at school, the same hundred or so kids that have been together since the beginning. None of us are rich enough to go to private school, so all of us go to the same public ones. And when I was younger, I didn't make any friends; how can friends ever replace the warmth and acceptance of a close-knit, loving family? But then my family left, and now it's too late; people have already made their cliques, and rivalry is fierce. No one would_ want _to be friends with me now. I'm an outcast. And it's okay, I guess, as long as I don't think about it._

She got up, rubbing at her eyes out of habit. She caught a glimpse of herself in her mirror and paused to wink at herself, her eyes glimmering with some internal joke; _everything will turn out just fine. _

I'll get through this. I've done it for so long, I can hold on a while longer, I know it. Focus, girl, focus. What would your parents think of you if you cried? 

The internet—it was a new idea that someone had mentioned to her. You could talk to people all over the world! How could she ever be lonely again with that at her disposal?

_You can be,_ that sarcastic voice whispered in her mind again. _Perhaps more so. With all those people so close, and yet so far—nothing like the touch of another—_

_Shut up!_ She yelled in her head as forcefully as she could, her hands balling into fists.

...Back to what she was doing. She walked over to her computer, already typing on it before she had fully sat down. She had always been rather good with computers—her computer now was a rickety old thing that she kept alive through sheer willpower—and fairly soon she had figured out the programs that controlled the modem, gotten the modem hooked up to her phone line, and flicked through the programs to install the browser. Soon she was actually online, her eyes lighting up as her first page greeted her. She quickly downloaded the Instant Messaging programs she wanted—she had done her research beforehand—and opened up her first email account.

While looking at the screen, which politely asked her to pick her user name, she paused. Turning away from her computer, she looked around for inspiration. The name popped into her head, unbidden: _Windsong?_

Shrugging, she muttered, "sure, why not," and typed it in.

Once that was done, she left the internet. She still had work to do, and she couldn't play on it forever. Humming again, she got up and began to clean around her house.

_Lonely? Yes. But like I said before—my life really isn't so bad. I just have to hold on until tomorrow, right? The future is always brighter than the present. _

Oh, right. My name?

It's Chakori.

Chakori Catir. 

- - - - -

Eyes a light shade of green-grey calmly assessed the ceiling. Feathery wisps got in the way of his vision; with a look of amused impatience on his face, he reached up with a hand and brushed away the long dirty-blond bangs that obscured his sight. The bed underneath him was soft and sunk comfortably under his weight. Despite its comfort, he really didn't like it all that much. Fact of the matter was, it was far too rich for his tastes. Covered in a rich red silken counterpane, it was elegantly adorned with head- and footboards, made of handsomely stained rosewood. The floor was covered with a rug as white as snow, and the ceiling and floors were covered with gilded moldings and frescoed ceilings.

It wasn't like it wasn't beautiful or anything, it was just that he really didn't like living in the lap of luxury all the time. He didn't like being singled out.

_Not like I can help it. Oh, what am I thinking; I haven't introduced myself. My name is Kumitatsu Yoru, but I'd appreciate it if you just called me Yoru... _

The Kumitatsu family is famous here. Once in the papers I saw us described as "The Rockefellers of Kyushu;" I guess that's a fairly accurate description. To use another American term, we're "old money"—we own the largest chunk of industrial factories here in Kyushu, and have for generations. We're by far the wealthiest family in the area.

I've always lived like this, but as a result, well, I've never really had any real friends. It's not anyone's fault, of course; I understand that a lot is expected of me, as a Kumitatsu. It's just that such responsibility truly separates me from everyone else, even among other wealthy families.

Then again, I'm not always sad _to stand separate from other wealthy children. The Kumitatsu tries to be humble, down to earth, and help out those less fortunate; other families...well, let's just say that I'm very glad I don't associate with them more than I have to. Always trying to prove that they're better than everyone else because they're richer, and always looking down upon the "common folk," as they call them, accompanying the phrase with an arrogant snigger—I'm so glad my family raised me to act better than that. _

Yoru sat there for a moment, contemplating the swirling fresco patterns on his ceiling, before a distant voice drifted through his door. "Kumitatsu-sama, if you don't wake up you'll be late for school!"

"Yes, I'm coming!" He called back to the maid, quickly rising from bed. _I wonder what will happen today? _

_- - - - -_

_Nothing's going to happen today, _Chakori thought with weary firmness. _Absolutely_ nothing. _Mom and Dad are going to come home and everything will be just like always. Nothing out of the ordinary today, you hear me God? Just business as usual, if you please. _With that thought, she finished tugging on her sailor fuku—worn in some places, and cleverly darned in others, since she was too poor to buy a new one—grabbed her briefcase, and headed out the door.

_Sorry I'm in a bad mood, but Mom and Dad never came home last night. Whenever this happens—and trust me, it's really, really rare—I worry half to death. What if something happened to them on the job? What if they got into an accident coming home? What if... _

But life goes on, and I still have to go to school. Stupid school. I never learn anything there. This school isn't a challenge, and it bores me half to death. Not like my family can afford anything better, of course... 

God must have listened to Chakori that day, since everything was just like every other day—until the end. She was heading out the doors, glad to be able to leave and see if her parents were home yet, when she heard "Catir-san!" yelled down the hallway. She turned, a questioning look on her face as she watched her Literature teacher run up to her with a piece of paper in his hand, huffing and puffing. "Catir-san, I'm glad I managed to catch you—I just got this." He grabbed her hand and pressed the paper he held into it; she grasped it instinctively, and the teacher stepped back a few steps. "You might be able to make it. Just look it over. I have a meeting now, sorry—" and, turning, he ran back down the hall.

_Tanaka-sensei has always looked out for me, ever since I came to this school. He's always had faith in me; he's the one that showed me that I can write pretty well. I really owe a lot to him. He's been the closest thing to a friend I've had here._

Curiosity overcoming her puzzlement, she carefully looked over the paper.

"Attention all middle and high schoolers!  
Hokuto Gakuen is a school specifically designed to recognize and nurture brilliance and creativity in gifted children entering or attending middle or high school. This year, three scholarships are being awarded to underprivileged children. To apply, you must be between the ages 14-16, and provide the program with a piece of skillful writing that presents in a sensitive, thought-provoking manner an issue important to the world today..."

Chakori nearly dropped the paper from her unnerved fingers. Here was the chance she had been looking for...to finally get out of the hole life had thrown her in.

_Here was my chance to start over. Here was my chance to go to a school where I'd actually learn; where the people couldn't judge me on my past; where, maybe, if I was lucky...  
Here was a place where I could find a friend.

* * *

_Chapters for this fic will come out _really_ slowly. I don't have much time and I only work on this haphazardly, so...yeah. Don't hold your breath, but I _do_ work on this fic more than almost any of my other fics, so yay? ;;O.o 

-Windsong - windsong 137 at gmail dot com

"My brother bites me on the head sometimes. You know, it hurts." -Val


	2. hajime

**Chapter Notes!:** Yoru's only half-Japanese. His father is Ichiro Kumitatsu, and comes from Samurai heritage; his mother is Linda Grahl, a Swedish woman born to a wealthy family. He looks mostly like his mother, and catches a lot of flack for it sometimes (As far as I know, most Japanese aren't exactly fond of foreigners).

Speaking of hereditaries, Chakori's a mutt (if you couldn't tell from her last name XD). Her father is Thai and her mother is Indian. His grandfather was a worker who lived in Japan, so he and his wife were allowed to move there and work (since Japan paid for menial labor a heck of a lot better than either Thailand or India did). Chakori was born in Japan, so she is Japanese by birth, if not by blood. Her name, by the way, means "A bird enamoured of the moon" in Indian. She and her family live in Ketakyushu, Fukuoka prefecture, Kyushu; her parents work for a steel plant there. (And yes, I totally did like a week of research on Japanese immigration laws and the Kyushu prefecture to make her character work, and I am _really_ proud of myself.)

**Disclaimers!:** Angelic Layer isn't mine; it belongs to CLAMP. All the ridiculous ideas that aren't in the original storyline are mine, though. Yoru Kumitatsu, Chakori Catir, Ayaka Chizou, The Huntress/Ishubarashi, Lightning, and The Mysterious Man are mine. So is Yuri Azumaka, although I'd gladly give her a good kick. O.o If you take anyone or anything that I've made up you will DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE.

"Hajime": something like "Begin the Fight." A kendo term. Enjoy!

* * *

Falling Star  
_By Windsong_  
**Chapter Two: hajime**

_"...So what will the ultimate outcome be? Will the Movement ultimately be a success, or a failure?_

_Only time will tell."_

With great flourish and a loud clattering of keys, Chakori finished writing her submission to Hokuto Gakuen's contest. She grinned, full of accomplishment, as she pressed the print button and impulsively hugged her computer screen. "Oh, Internet, how I love you," she laughed.

_Oh, my parents? They pulled double shifts, and didn't have time to call me. As a reward, though, they got the day off, so we got to talk for a few minutes before they went to sleep—they need to regain their strength, you know. Those few minutes were wonderful, but...eye-opening. They looked so different. So much _older. _Mother had more wrinkles around her eyes, and dad's face seemed to have forgotten how to smile. They were both thinner and quieter, their voices more hushed than before. Dad's round Kyushu accent, which always made his voice sound like a booming laugh, was a lot quieter. Paler._

_Time moves on, and things change. It was wonderful to see my parents for a little while, but it just drove the point home: how well do we really know each other now? It almost felt like I was talking to strangers, except for those quirks of speech or flashes of familiar expressions that made them recognizable._

_I haven't even told them about the Hokuto contest yet. I decided to surprise them with the news. But when will I get a chance to tell them? Maybe they won't even notice..._

- - - - -

A classmate brushed by Yoru as she called out, "Ne, Ayaka-chan! Guess what I just heard!"

Yoru sighed as he turned away, yet perked his ears to listen. _Azumaka-san...the class gossip. One never knows when she might have useful information amongst all the idle chatter._

After a few minutes of who-was-going-out-with-whom and who-got-in-trouble, Azumaka said, "And have you heard about the scholarship program?"

Ayaka's braided pigtails bounced as she fixed bright eyes on her classmate. "Yuri-chan, what are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about..._this_." The gossip pulled out a newspaper clipping with a flourish, making it rattle loudly to gather attention. "It says, and I quote: 'This year, Hokuto Gakuen is offering three scholarships to underprivileged high school students between the ages of 14 and 16.' Underprivileged! Where do you think they'll dig them up from? Osaka?" Yuri giggled nastily, inviting her fellow classmates to join her. Quite a few of them did.

"They'll have that thick, sloppy accent—you can barely understand what they're saying."

"They'll have no manners to speak of—"

"Always begging us for money—"

Ayaka spoke up, looking concerned. "But—look on the bright side! If they're really as bad as you say, they'll just make the rest of us look better in comparison."

A boy snorted. "Chizou-san, what are you _thinking_? The teachers will only get angry at us for not helping the poor thing!"

"Even though by this age, they're probably beyond help—"

"And who'd want to help anyone like _them_? Lazy, stupid—"

Ayaka spoke again. "They wouldn't be stupid! Hokuto Gakuen is a gifted school. They wouldn't let just anybody in here."

"Oh _really_?" a girl shot back. "It's starting to sound like it. Don't you know? 'Underprivileged' is basically synonymous with 'Substandard.' Poor people can't possibly be expected to perform as well as us, so their tests and tasks are simplified for them."

Yuri folded her arms huffily. "This is just a waste of our time!"

"And the school's time, and money, too!"

Finally, Yoru had had enough and stood up, unconsciously gathering authority to himself as he straightened. He paused for a moment to make sure everybody was looking at him, then gave a polite smile and said softly, "You all might be interested to learn that my family—_which,_ as you know, hails from Kyushu—not only proposed the scholarship program, but also organized it and provided all of its funding."

There was a pause.

"The Kumitatsu family?" Azumaka said, clearly surprised. "Why on earth would they do something like that?"

To help people like you stop being so ignorant he thought. But instead of speaking his mind, he simply looked at the girl, this time not concealing the warning in his eyes. "Then, Azumaka-san, you feel that my family," _which has been around for generations longer than yours, and is far more profitable than yours will ever be_, "has made a mistake?"

Slowly, she looked him up and down, a nasty smirk gracing her face as she took in his blond hair and green-grey eyes. "Well...it wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Silence rang throughout the room. Yoru's voice was very soft and very deadly. "Are you insulting my mother, Azumaka-san?"

"I'm simply stating that no one is perfect," she said loftily, crossing her arms and lifting her chin, that superior smile still on her face.

Yoru's expression was cool. "Why, I must agree with you," he said politely, "As your _own_ family is such a good example of this." He smiled, the expression seeming somehow dangerous. "How many million yen is your uncle in debt now? I seem to have lost track."

The girl paled, then flushed.

"I don't believe this scholarship is a mistake, however." His eyes clearly asked her, _May I speak, or will I have to continue?_

She clenched her fists and turned away, saying nothing.

Only the barest hint of a smile quirked the corners of his mouth. He was polite, even in victory. "Then of course you agree that this scholarship can be as good as bad. It's as Chizou-san said—" at this, the girl blushed—"You just have to look on the bright side. I'm sure the transfer students won't be half as bad as you think. After all, Hokuto Gakuen has its reputation to think of, ne? Just give the new students a chance. Will you at least do that?"

Yoru didn't exactly get a chorus of "Hai"s, but he did get a lot of thoughtful looks and one or two nods, which is all he wanted, anyway.

Except then heard Yuri mutter to another one of her friends, "I don't care what Kumitatsu-san says. I'm not going to go out of my way to be nice to riffraff," and he sighed.

_Azumaka-san is so...arrogant. How can anyone stand her? Chizou-san, on the other hand, is a sweet girl, very caring. I wish she wouldn't hang out with Azumaka-san so much; she can do so much better, and it's definitely the wrong crowd for her to linger in._

Without realizing it, he had been looking at Ayaka as he thought, and the girl started to look uncomfortable. "Oh, Chizou-san, I'm sorry," Yoru said with an embarrassed laugh, coming back to reality. "I didn't mean to stare."

"That's all right," she replied with a quick smile. "Ne, Kumitatsu-san...what do _you_ think of the scholarship program?"

"Me? I think it's a great idea. Hokuto needs some new people to mix it up a little. Besides, it gives a few more people a chance to make a difference in the world—you know that's what the Shimaku-sensei's always telling us to do."

"Mm," Ayaka agreed brightly, "and it'll be so much fun to make new friends, don't you think?"

Yoru gave a real smile this time. "Definitely!"

Ayaka paused, smiling rather shyly before she continued in a hesitant voice. "Kumitatsu-san, you're...you're good at math, right? That's what the girls say."

"I'm nothing special," he said with a modest wave of his hand. "Why do you ask? Need help with a problem?"

At Yoru's encouraging smile, she blushed slightly and ducked her head. "Yeah, actually..."

"Good morning, class!" called out a cheery voice, cutting off their conversation as their teacher strode into the room.

"Good morning, Shimaku-sensei," the class chimed back automatically.

He leaned over and whispered, "Ne, Chizou-san, why don't we have lunch together? I can help you with the problem then." He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

The girl's eyes lit up. "Sure! That'll be great!"

"To your seats, class," Shimaku-sensei's said.

"Until then, Chizou-san," Yoru said, smiling at Ayaka.

The girl smiled back before heading to her seat.

- - - - -

The large, multi-layered room was full of cigarette smoke, people, and silence. Each balcony above the ground floor was filled with pressing, fascinated onlookers, each one straining to see the spectacle occurring below. Two figures stood on the ground floor, each one standing on one side of a dully glowing table. Both wore cloaks that completely covered their bodies from head to toe, but the onlookers could tell them apart just from the way they stood. One rested confidently on one leg while planting a hand on the other hip, back straight, and head held high. The other was hunched over with knees bent, fully concentrating upon the table before the pair, hands grasping fistfuls of cloak to lift it slightly, revealing white sneakers. Above each head was a LED display. HUNTRESS was displayed above the head of the confident one; the other figure was named LIGHTNING.

But the crowd wasn't there for _them_. The true stars of the night were on the table between the two people, where two small Angels furiously fought, the small sounds of their struggle amplified by the room's acoustics.

_"How much did you bet?"_ asked one voice in the crowd.  
_"Two million yen on Lightning,"_ another voice whispered back excitedly. _"Isn't he amazing?"_  
_"You've never seen The Huntress fight before?"_ the first voice asked, surprised.  
_"Well—no."  
"You're in for a treat, then."_ One could hear the grin in his voice. _"The Huntress is just getting warmed up now, but the tide'll turn any minute. Might even be worth all the money you just lost!"  
__**"Shut up!"**_ a third voice cut in harshly, causing them to fall silent.

One Angel was of large and sturdy build, tall and heavy, with dark, almost pure black skin and startling cerulean blue eyes. He was dressed in flowing emerald and sapphire silks trimmed with flashing gold and silver beads, styled to resemble an Indian dancer's outfit. His Angel cord tied his long honey-blonde hair into a ponytail, artfully disguised as a veil-like strip of cloth fringed with small flashing golden circles. Pointy curled sandals covered his feet, catching the light as stood on one leg, the other one drawn up high, arms held straight above his head with the hands pointed horizontally away from him at his wrists. His raised leg lowered slowly to the floor, eyes sliding shut as he waited for his Deus's next command.

The other Angel was as tall as his opponent, but almost _too_ thin, his emaciated frame covered with pale skin, long white hair that covered one eye, and cruel silver eyes. His clothing fit loosely on him; his golden vest and white sleeveless turtleneck accentuated his long arms and neck, and his white loose pants, paired front and back with a faded gold breechclout, made his long legs look even longer than they were. His white fingerless gloves had been dirtied slightly during the battle, but aside from that he seemed to have no damage. His Angel Cords took the form of two long, dangling earrings that glittered as they caught the light. He danced on the balls of his feet, obviously disliking the idea of staying still, an enigmatic smirk playing across his face as he, too, waited for his Deus's orders.

The uneasy lull in the battle lengthened. Catcalls, insults, and boos began to rain down from the audience above. The Huntress seemed to show no signs of moving; Lightning, however, suddenly straightened.

The white Angel dashed forwards, almost disappearing, making a zigzag motion as he sped towards his opponent. _"That's it,"_ the second voice murmured, _"That's his famous Flashing Strike! How will—"_ He stopped, flabbergasted; the dark angel had disappeared as well.

Lightning muttered, "Impossible—he's too heavy!" The Huntress was silent.

The white Angel reappeared, skidding to a stop as he looked for his opponent. An almost silent hiss of silk made him suddenly look upwards; above him, the dark Angel was plummeting towards his target, his mouth open in a silent battle cry. The white Angel dodged it and skipped backwards, but he had lost the advantage. The black Angel landed and immediately flowed into a pounce, grabbing his opponent's shoulders and pulling himself forwards to crack heads with the other Angel. Suddenly released from his opponent's grip, the white Angel staggered back. Lightning bobbed up and down unconsciously as he communicated with his Angel. The white Angel recovered and rejoined the battle, lashing out with snappy, disjointed kicks and punches. The Huntress's Angel did not dodge them easily, and two or three punches connected, but the Huntress's Angel didn't allow his opponent to stay on the offensive for long—without warning he grabbed one outstretched hand and again yanked the white Angel off-balance as he ducked down, below the now-overextended arm. The dark Angel's free arm snaked between him and his opponent, before swinging backwards to smash Lightning's Angel brutally in the face with a balled fist.

The black Angel spun with his opponent, continuing to pull on his outstretched arm before throwing him. Lightning was prepared, however, and made his Angel land in a diving roll before spinning to face the black Angel. The Huntress's Angel was now sprinting to meet Lightning's Angel, who ran to meet him as well. A few seconds before they would have collided, the white Angel drew his fist back for a punch; however, the dark Angel went into a sliding kick. The white Angel immediately skidded to a stop, and his opponent slid harmlessly between his legs. The crowd murmured, impressed at Lightning's quick thinking as the Deus in question jerked upright.

The Huntress was silent.

As the dark Angel slipped through Lighting's Angel's legs, his hands reached out, getting a firm hold on his opponent's ankles. With his superior weight, his momentum was unstoppable as he pulled the white Angel's legs out from under him, causing him to fall on his face. Never losing his grip on the white Angel's legs, he dragged his opponent towards him, crawling forwards to fall with a heavy thud on his opponent's spinal cord. The white Angel convulsed for a moment before falling limp.

The LED displaying Lightning's name blacked out. He hunched, suddenly afraid, as the crowd went silent with greedy expectation. The dark Angel, still kneeling over his fallen opponent, straightened for a moment, staring directly into the hood that shadowed Lightning's face. Then, without hesitation, he struck brutally at the white Angel's head, torso, and shoulders, clawing, beating, and tearing the Angel to pieces. There were whines and pops as the Angel's circuitry and frame were damaged more and more heavily, his ruthless attacks finally ripping through the Angel's skin to reveal the snaking wiring and eerie circuit boards underneath. Once the Angel's innards were so revealed, the dark Angel redoubled his efforts.

Lightning began to scream.

The Huntress was silent.

"WINNER—" an automated voice boomed from the loudspeakers high above them, "THE HUNTRESS!"

The victor lifted her head, allowing light from the spotlights above to pierce the darkness of her hood and illuminate the lower half of her face and neck, revealing short-cropped hair and a pitiless, sadistic smile.

Finally finished, the dark Angel stood away from his destroyed opponent. Lightning threw himself forwards, gathering up what pieces of his Angel he could reach as his screams subsided into racking sobs.

The Huntress finally spoke. "Fool." She swept her Angel ungraciously up off the Layer as a spoiled child would grab a doll. "Build something a bit more challenging next time. This one," she said, "Was too easy to destroy at the end. Where's the fun in that?"

"I'll kill you," Lightning sobbed, then pointed at her Angel. "I'll _kill him!_"

She smirked. "I'd like to see you try." Turning sharply on her heel, she strode out in the middle of the audience's roars and applause.

- - - - -

Once in the relative quiet of the dark and dirty hallway, she glanced down at the Angel she gripped in her hand. "Good work. Perhaps you'll serve me yet."

"I love you, mistress," the Angel whispered back.

She squeezed him hard, making him squirm uncomfortably. "What did I tell you—"

"Apologies, mistress," he rasped, "Ten thousand apologies. Please—"

She relaxed her grip, giving him a final shake. "Mind your tongue."

"Yes, mistress," the Angel said meekly.

"And your mind, too!" she growled, shaking him harder. "I _know_ you're thinking it!"

"Apologies," he whispered again.

Losing interest in her Angel, she reached up and threw her hood back, revealing short dark blue, almost black hair that faded to ice-blue near the tips, and chocolate-amber eyes. Her movements were sinuously graceful as she strode down the hall, unfastening the rest of the cloak's buttons as she went. "_Ridiculous_ getup," she muttered as she yanked it off of her shoulders, exposing an ice-blue sleeveless shirt, tight black pants, black shoes, and black leather gloves. Pausing in a musty dressing room, she traded the cloak for a faded leather trenchcoat, which she quickly threw on before rudely stuffing her Angel into one deep pocket.

"You're just a doll," The Huntress said cruelly as she stepped back into the hallway. "What do _you_ know about love?"

-I forgot my place,- the Angel replied, -Apologies.-

She dragged him out of her pocket and flung him hard, ignoring the harsh crack that echoed when he hit the wall. "I thought I _told_ you," she growled, her voice low with threat, "To speak aloud. If I catch you in my head ever again I'll rip you limb from limb." Walking over to her Angel, which was piteously struggling to stand from where he lay crumpled on the floor, she glared down at him. "Are we clear?"

"Yes...mistress," he gasped. "I am unworthy of your grace." Satisfied, at least for now, she picked him up again. Moving on down the hall, she pulled sunglasses out of her other pocket. Almost at the door that led to the street, she stopped short upon seeing someone else in the hallway with her.

"This is a private area," she stated coldly. "Who're you?"

"Power," the man who blocked her path replied silkily, "can open many doors. And close them, too. You _would_ know about that, wouldn't you, Ishubarashi-san?"

She stiffened upon hearing her real name. "Answer my question. Who are you?"

He smiled. "Call me a fan. I'd like to speak with you, if you have the time." He paused. "You're free tonight, aren't you?"

"No," she said shortly, "I'm booked all this week. Maybe later."

He stepped forwards until his face was inches away from hers. She glared at him, but he didn't move. "Don't be a spoilsport," he said softly, his easy tone unnerving. "We _do_ have so much in common. We both love power...and revenge. Isn't that right?"

She stared hard at him, suspicious...and intrigued.

"Mistress—" a voice spoke up timidly from her pocket.  
"SHUT UP!" The Huntress bellowed, causing her Angel to suddenly fall silent. The man seemed unfazed by the fact that she had just yelled into his face.

She looked the stranger up and down slowly in silent appraisal. "You've caught my attention," she said, a smile slowly coming to her lips. "Perhaps I can _squeeze_ you in tonight."

He smiled. "Why, thank you." Moving towards the door, he held it open, and executed a courtly bow. "Shall we?"

"Don't act like an idiot," she said shortly, tapping her foot as he straightened, a slightly embarrassed and angry look on his face. Seeing his expression, she smirked, "Well?" and put on her sunglasses. "What are you waiting for?"

Together, they quickly disappeared into the night.

* * *

Wow, this chapter took me months to write. Sorry? 

Ja!

-Windsong - wind song 137 at gmail dot com

"To the glowing platformy thingy!" -Hakurou, Angel Fall


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